


In Peace

by Fyre



Category: Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the hardest part of surviving is to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everchangingmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everchangingmuse/gifts).



> Sorry it's not very long, but the characters weren't being very cooperative.

It was raining, torrents streaming down over the wings of stone angels and pattering on the pedestals beneath their feet. Above them, the sky was bleak and grey. 

Benvolio wrapped his arms across his middle, staring dully at the mausoleum before him. It was the resting place of the Capulets. It was where the secret wife of his dearest friend had been laid to rest. It was where the tragedy had played out to its fatal end. 

There were whispers that the lovers would be given a shared tomb, a sign of the peace that had been brokered in the blood of the young.

Benvolio felt the heat of tears on his cheeks. They mingled with the chill of the rain, and no matter how hard he tried to contain them, he could not.

He had thought the loss of Mercutio was the worst that could happen. Mercutio - to him - embodied all the best things in life. When he had watched the blood spill from Mercutio's side, when he heard the whispered curse, when friend turned against friend after a moment of desperate folly, he should have known that all would end in death and despair.

There was peace, it was true, but at what cost?

"Benvolio?"

He turned, startled, at the voice nearby. Friar Lawrence was clad in his formal robes, his hood drawn low around his face. Benvolio remembered the sight of the man before him, when they had all gathered at the crypt, when they had seen Romeo, dead. 

"Father," he said, his voice trembling.

"Come inside, child," the Friar said gently. "This is no weather to be standing outside."

Benvolio nodded numbly. He followed the Friar back towards the Chapel, pausing in the vestry to brush his hands across his cheeks. It would not hide the tears. He did not imagine he could weep so much, but in recent days, it felt like he couldn't stop. 

"Here." The Friar offered him a ragged cloth. "You're soaked to the bone."

Benvolio looked down at himself. He had barely noticed. He accepted the cloth, drying what he could, but it was barely a drop in the ocean. "I had to come," he said. His voice sounded like a stranger's, hoarse and ragged. 

"I understand," Friar Lawrence said quietly. "Everyone has their own way of dealing with tragedy." He put his hand on Benvolio's shoulder, guiding him into the chapel. Candles were lit and the darkness pressing against the windows seemed to shy from the warmth of the holy place. "Sit. Rest."

Benvolio sank onto the nearest bench. 

After the icy hardness of the cemetery, the wood seemed soft, warm, beneath him. He twisted the cloth between his hands, watching water drip from his hair, his sleeves, onto the flagstones of the chapel floor. He pressed his eyes closed again against the grief.

Others had family, close kin to whom they could turn, but he could do none of that.

It was his presence that had brought Romeo home.

It was his fault that Romeo returned.

It was his fault that Romeo...

He folded over on himself, his hands twisting so tightly into the cloth that he felt the fibres tearing at his palms. It felt like his breath was burning in his lungs as he choked down on painful sobs, his body trembling. He flinched when he felt broad, rough hands on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "Forgive me, Father."

"You have done nothing wrong, Benvolio," the old man murmured. 

"I have," he whispered. "I have, Father. Your letter, the one to Romeo, I destroyed it. I thought... I thought he would do something foolish."

Friar Lawrence drew a breath. "That doesn't change things," he said, his voice rougher now. "No matter the content of the letter, he would have come. You know he would have." His hands squeezed firmly at Benvolio's shoulders. "You cannot blame yourself."

"I told him she was dead," Benvolio whispered. 

"And I made it appear so," Friar Lawrence said. "My hand guided her. It was my hand that bound them. Am I not then to blame?"

Benvolio looked up at him, shaken. "It wasn't your doing, Father."

"Just as it was not yours," the Friar said with grave patience. "We did not make them take their lives. That was a fate of their own choosing. It is we, however, who must live without them." The old man sank to sit on the bench beside him, looking at him, his features lined with weariness and grief. "We must remember they are together now, and at peace."

"And Mercutio with them," Benvolio whispered. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the fresh grief. "And I am left alone."

The Friar's hand came up to rest, callused and warm, across the back of Benvolio's neck. He made brief, comforting sounds, his hand rubbing Benvolio's neck and shoulders. "It feels so now, child," he said gently, "but you are not alone. There are others here with you, others who also grieve."

Benvolio nodded, shivering. "My aunt," he whispered.

Friar Lawrence took him by the shoulders. "Go to her," he said firmly. "She will need comfort as you do. You may be able help one another." Benvolio must have looked afraid, for the Friar cuffed his cheek gently. "You are family. In times of grief and pain, that is when family is most important."

"And if she blames me?" Benvolio asked in a voice that felt small, lost and strange.

"You did not guide his hand," Friar Lawrence said with firm certainty. "You are no more to blame than the sea that beats on the shore. They were bound to this fate, together. All the hands of heaven could not have stopped it." He offered a weary smile. "By their love, they have bought us peace. Is that not worth something?"

Benvolio wished he could agree, but all he could see were their faces: Romeo, Mercutio, even Tybalt. All gone.

"Maybe one day, I will be able to believe it is all worth it," he said quietly, rising.

"You will be here for that day," Friar Lawrence said, rising too. "If this had not come to pass, perhaps, you might not have been."

Benvolio bowed his head. "Or perhaps they would have," he said. He drew back towards the door. "Thank you, Father."

Friar Lawrence gazed at him solemnly. "Go in peace, my son."


End file.
